The Women Before Me.

Winter's POV

The silence after my mother's words feels heavier than anything that came before them.

"If he is right, Winter... then the attacks against you are not random anymore."

The sentence hangs in the air between us long after she finishes speaking.

I stare at her.

She stares back.

For the first time since she entered the room, neither of us seems to know what to say next.

Outside the window, the palace continues moving as though nothing has changed. Guards patrol the grounds. Servants cross the courtyard carrying baskets and crates. Somewhere in the distance, I can hear wolves training.

Normal sounds.

Normal life.

Meanwhile, my mother has just told me that someone may be targeting me for reasons that go far beyond politics.

I suddenly feel very tired.

My gaze drops to my hands.

They look steady.

I don't feel steady.

"What aren't you telling me?"

My voice comes out quieter than I intend.

Mother doesn't answer immediately.

That alone tells me enough.

A knot forms in my stomach.

"Mother."

She exhales slowly.

The sound is soft.

Resigned.

As if she has spent years hoping she would never need to have this conversation.

"Do you remember? When you were little," she begins carefully, "you used to ask me why the women in our family kept journals."

I blink.

That is not the answer I expected.

"What?"

"The journals."

She folds her hands in her lap.

"Your grandmother kept them. Her mother kept them. Every woman in our bloodline did."

I remember them.

Rows and rows of leather-bound books hidden in the oldest wing of our estate.

As a child, I always assumed they were used for boring historical records.

Apparently not.

My mother studies my expression.

"We write down what we see."

Cold creeps slowly into my chest.

"What we see?"

Her eyes hold mine.

"In dreams."

The room becomes very quiet.

I stare at her for several seconds.

Then I laugh.

Not because it's funny.

Because it sounds ridiculous.

"You're joking."

"I'm not."

The laugh dies instantly.

I search her face for some sign of teasing.

There isn't one.

My stomach drops.

Slowly.

Painfully.

The eye.

The ocean.

The necklace.

The dreams.

Suddenly none of it feels quite so impossible anymore.

"What kind of dreams?"

My mother looks toward the window briefly before answering.

"The kind that arrive without invitation."

Not helpful.

I narrow my eyes.

"Mother."

A faint smile touches her lips.

Only for a moment.

"You always hated vague answers."

"Because they're annoying."

"Your grandmother said the same thing."

I groan.

She ignores me.

"The women in our family occasionally dream of things before they happen."

I blink.

Once.

Twice.

"That's impossible."

She looks me dead in the eye. "We live in a world with shape shifting beasts, winged, fanged monsters and magic users. We left the realm of possibilities ages ago."

Fair point.

I hate when she does that.

She notices my expression and almost smiles again.

Almost.

Then her face grows serious.

"Most of the dreams mean nothing."

My attention sharpens.

"Most?"

"Fragments. Symbols. Strange places. Nonsense."

She hesitates.

"But not all of them."

Something twists inside my chest.

"What happened?"

For a moment she says nothing.

Then she looks away.

"My grandmother dreamed of a flood two weeks before it happened."

The room feels colder.

"My mother dreamed of an assassination attempt."

I sit a little straighter.

"And you?"

Her gaze returns to mine.

"I dreamed of your birth."

The answer catches me off guard.

"What?"

"I saw your face years before you were born."

For some reason, that unsettles me more than the others.

Maybe because it feels personal.

Real.

Mother's expression softens slightly.

"You were missing your front tooth."

I blink.

"What?"

"You were six."

My mouth falls open.

"No."

"Yes."

"No."

A quiet laugh escapes her.

The sound is so familiar that something in my chest aches.

"You cried because Ariana stole your sweets."

"Oh my gods."

The smile remains for another second before fading.

And just like that, the warmth leaves the room again.

Because neither of us has forgotten why we're having this conversation.

I swallow.

"So these dreams..."

My voice trails off.

Mother nods.

"We don't understand them fully."

"That's comforting."

"It's the truth."

I sigh.

Fair enough.

She shifts slightly in her chair.

Then her expression becomes thoughtful.

"There's something else."

I don't like those words anymore.

Every time someone says them, my life gets worse.

Mother doesn't seem to notice.

Or maybe she does.

"The necklace belonged to your grandmother."

I immediately straighten.

"The one from my dream?"

"Yes."

My pulse quickens.

She reaches into the folds of her robe.

Slowly.

Carefully.

Then withdraws a small velvet pouch.

For a moment, I simply stare.

The room suddenly feels too small.

Too quiet.

My eyes remain fixed on the pouch.

Mother looks down at it.

The expression on her face is impossible to read.

"It's been passed from mother to daughter for generations."

My throat tightens.

"Then why didn't you give it to me before?"

A shadow passes across her features.

A brief one.

Gone almost immediately.

"I didn't think you'd need it."

The answer sounds honest.

Which somehow makes it worse.

Because if she thinks I need it now—

I don't want to finish that thought.

Mother's fingers tighten around the pouch slightly.

Then she looks at me.

Really looks at me.

And says quietly,

"There is something else you should know."

Oh no.

Never those words.

Not again.

I sink further into the pillows.

"Just tell me."

To my surprise, she laughs softly.

Then shakes her head.

"I forget sometimes how much you sound like Ariana."

I smile despite myself.

"Ariana would be kicking down walls by now."

"Three, actually."

I blink.

"What?"

Mother's eyes gleam.

"She damaged three walls after hearing about your attack that day."

My jaw drops.

"She did not."

"She absolutely did."

A laugh escapes me before I can stop it.

For the first time all day, it feels genuine.

Mother smiles.

"There were also threats."

"Oh gods."

"Many threats."

I bury my face in my hands.

"Please tell me she didn't threaten the council."

Mother says nothing.

I slowly lower my hands.

Her expression answers for her.

"Ariana threatened the council."

"Only two members."

"Mother."

"They deserved it."

I laugh again.

This time she joins me.

The sound fades slowly.

Comfortably.

Then something occurs to me.

I glance toward her.

"You said there was something else."

The smile disappears.

Immediately.

And suddenly I know this conversation is about to become serious again.

Mother lowers her gaze briefly.

When she looks back up, something in her expression has changed.

Something older.

Sadder.

"You never believed your father and I married for love."

I freeze.

The room falls silent.

Completely silent.

My heart skips once.

Then twice.

And suddenly I am very aware of every sound in the room.

Every breath.

Every heartbeat.

Mother looks toward the window.

Not at me.

"There is at least, some truth in that. As strange as it may seem now," she says softly, " even though your father wasn't my choice, we weren't always.. like this."

I stare at her.

Unable to speak.

Unable to move.

Unable to process what she just said.

Because if that's true—

If that's true, then everything I thought I knew about my parents might be wrong.

And judging by the look on my mother's face—

This conversation is only just beginning.